by Becky Wade
Her parents had informed her that, under no circumstances, was she allowed to date airmen. They were older, more experienced, and living free in the world without parental oversight.
She hadn’t been a particularly obedient teenager. Her parents’ rule against airmen might have backfired and made her determined to date them, except for two things.
One, the personalities of the airmen she met. Two, the way her friends reacted to them.
Air Force guys could be cocky, ambitious, and overserved with testosterone. Some were incapable of sharing softer feelings. Some refused to admit weakness. Also, they never stuck around for long. If you dated one of them, you’d spend a lot of time alone. If you married one of them, you’d face a higher divorce rate than the general population and you’d spend your life moving from place to place across the globe.
Even so, her group of friends, which had ranked three tiers down from the most popular group of girls at Misty River High School, had adored the airmen. They smiled at them with round cow eyes. They listened to them as if concert tickets were falling from their mouths. It seemed to Penelope that her friends’ conduct inflated male egos already stretched at the seams like mylar balloons.
Whenever her friends turned right in unison, something within Penelope had always goaded her to turn left. One night in the spring semester of her junior year, she’d stood alone in the lobby of the movie theater, witnessing her friends’ behavior. She’d been deeply embarrassed on their behalf, and in that moment, she’d determined that she would not follow the predictable path that they had chosen.
That same night, she’d announced to her friends that she would not date Air Force guys. She’d stuck to her guns easily through the remainder of high school and during the vacation time she’d spent at home while attending the University of North Georgia.
She tilted her profile down to study the nuances of Madeline’s wrinkled, fisted hands. The little girl’s scent of baby shampoo and milk drifted on the air.
After graduation, Penelope had moved into an apartment in Misty River with her friend Lila and waited tables while looking for a permanent position in hospitality. Around that time, Lila had fallen madly in love with an Air Force Engineering Officer named Brady. They’d been euphorically happy right up until he deployed to the Middle East. Penelope held Lila’s hand through misery over their separation that was every bit as low as the euphoria had been high while privately doubting whether Brady was fit to shine Lila’s shoes.
Brady eventually returned. Lila was euphoric again. But soon after, miserable again. Only later did Lila tell Penelope that she’d gotten pregnant and gone alone to a clinic for an abortion.
Brady had eventually been restationed to Hawaii. Maintaining a long-distance relationship proved too hard for the couple, and Brady broke up with Lila. Penelope mopped Lila’s tears.
She mopped Destiny’s tears when Carter was injured and chose to return home free of both his military responsibilities and Destiny. She mopped Jennifer’s tears when Brett deployed. She mopped Gabby’s tears after her divorce from Nathan. She mopped Peyton’s tears when Brandon’s squadron was sent to California. She mopped Michelle’s tears when Carlos behaved like a punk.
As far as she could tell, all of her friends had surrendered their identities to the heroic, high-stakes professions of their significant others, which galled Penelope. Her individuality was her most precious commodity.
For ten years, she’d not once violated her rule against dating airmen.
And then, a year and a half ago, her beloved brother had befriended Captain Eli Joseph Price, call sign Big Sky.
And Eli was . . . great.
Eli had thrown into doubt all the stereotypes she’d constructed.
Eli had tempted her into bending her rule.
Chapter Two
Looking for Penelope had become a habit Eli couldn’t break.
A few months before he’d left Georgia, he’d started looking for her everywhere he went in Misty River, like a TV antenna trying to pick up a signal.
He’d continued to look for her when he’d been half a world away. It had made no sense, but he’d climb from the cockpit of his F-22 and catch himself scanning the horizon for a red ’74 Bronco. In meetings, he’d hear the door open and glance up, hoping it was her. When he downloaded email, he looked for her name.
Finally, this evening, he’d come face-to-face with her again. She was angry with him, but he’d been so overwhelmingly glad to see her that even her irritation hadn’t had the power to ruin his mood.
At Ricker’s gate, he slowed his black ’70 Mustang and showed his ID. The SPs waved him forward.
Soon after Penelope had rejected his help with Madeline, he’d received a text from a buddy, letting him know that he was scheduled to lead mission on Monday. He’d decided to stop by the squadron to check the flying schedule in order to give himself additional time to prepare. He continued past the turnoff he’d have taken to reach his apartment.
When he’d come to Georgia, he’d moved into bachelor officer’s quarters on base without even bothering to paint the apartment’s beige walls. At his base in Alaska, and in Florida before that, he’d chosen equally simple housing. Avoiding a commute to work was worth more to him than either the comfort or impressiveness of the housing choices in town.
Other than a few pieces of modern art painted by an artist from Montana, his top-of-the-line television, and his sound system, he didn’t have a lot. Just clothes, bedding, sports equipment, and his car.
He’d never needed much beyond flying. Flying was the center of almost everything he thought about and did and cared about, and had been since his parents had taken him and his older and younger brothers to a Thunderbirds demonstration when he’d been in third grade.
In fact, flying had been enough for him right up until Penelope Quinn had entered his life like the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.
Inside the squadron, he spent time shaking hands and catching up with the squadron intel officer and an exec he hadn’t seen since he’d left for Syria. Then he made his way into the scheduling shop, where the flying schedule filled a large whiteboard. He noted the flight’s call sign and information, then frowned slightly at the names of his wingmen, who were good but not quite up to his standards. He took his time studying the takeoff and landing times, aircraft configuration, operating area, and the list of additional assets they’d be working with.
Eventually, he caught himself staring at the board without seeing it. Instead, Penelope filled his mind.
Earlier, her skin had looked lightly tanned. It was summer, so a tan was expected. But he knew her skin looked that same way even in the middle of winter. Tiny freckles were sprinkled across her nose, cheekbones, and beneath the graceful lines of her eyebrows. She had an expressive mouth and slate blue eyes.
Her hair was mostly caramel brown in color, but lightened here and there by strands of dark gold. She wore it in long, natural waves that always reminded him of a day at the beach even though they were hundreds of miles from the nearest coast.
He’d been drawn to her because of their similarities—their sense of humor, their faith, the importance they placed on their family. And because of their differences, too. He was factual and she was creative. He was strait-laced and she was quirky. He was a rule-follower and there was something just a little bit reckless about Penelope.
At last, he’d returned to Georgia. At last, he had an opportunity to convince her to give him a second chance.
• • •
Keeping a newborn alive through the night made for seriously subpar sleep. Penelope had been awakened by Madeline three—or was it four?—times. There wasn’t enough iced tea in the world to vanquish the level of exhaustion she was experiencing this morning. It weighted her limbs and stuffed her head with wool.
Since she’d had no overnight bag, she’d made do by finger-brushing toothpaste onto her teeth last night and this morning, borrowing Aubrey’s face wash, and donning a yoga
pants/exercise top set this morning that she’d found at the bottom of Aubrey’s drawer beneath pregnancy workout gear. Her hair was a tangle and she couldn’t wait to return to her own shower, clothing, and cosmetics.
At six forty-five, the doorbell rang and she swung the front door wide.
She found Eli standing on the threshold, hands in the pockets of his jeans. The name of his favorite band, The Cranberries, was written across his ivory T-shirt in washed-out gray.
A warm, melting sensation swirled within her torso. “You’re here,” she said. What an astonishing observation, Penelope. So astute!
“I am.”
The glitter of morning sunlight against glossy paint drew her focus to his Mustang parked on the curb. He’d purchased it from his grandfather, who restored classic cars. She, too, owned a ’70s Ford, which she’d once taken as a sign from heaven that a romance between them was destined.
“Come on in.” She held the door as he passed through.
“How’d it go last night?” he asked.
“I think it went fairly normally for Madeline, but I feel as though I’ve been hit in the face with a frying pan.” She led him into the living room. “She’s currently relaxing in this Moses basket type thing.”
“Is that for babies? It looks like something that should hold magazines.”
“I’m ninety percent sure it’s for babies.”
He lifted the basket. Turning it to face him, he contemplated the infant with a small, smitten smile that had the power to twist her resolve into a pretzel.
“Morning,” he said to Madeline. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Madeline, swaddled snuggly in a pink blanket, regarded him with wise eyes.
Penelope swept around the space, bringing him up to speed on all aspects of Madeline’s care. Any sensible single, childless, thirty-year-old man should be daunted at the task he was about to undertake. But he did not appear daunted.
She paused in the foyer before leaving. “Are you two going to be okay?”
“We’re going to be fine.”
“Any questions for me?”
“Nope. I’ve got this.”
Her lips curved. “Funny, that’s exactly what I said to Theo yesterday before I took over with Madeline.”
“But today you feel like you’ve been hit in the face with a frying pan.”
“Precisely. Naivety can be so empowering.”
He lifted a strong shoulder and smiled. “I guess it’s my turn to get hit in the face with a frying pan. You’re needed elsewhere. If Polka-Dot Apron Pies doesn’t open today, we’ll have an angry mob on our hands.”
“My car’s still at the hospital, so I’m taking Theo’s car. Last I heard, Theo’s planning to Uber here around lunchtime to clean up and gather Aubrey’s things. Then he’s going to take Madeline up to the hospital with him in Aubrey’s car.”
He nodded. The air between them thickened.
“Penelope,” he started, “I—”
“Some of Aubrey’s friends are scheduled to watch Madeline tonight. After that, we’ll play it by ear. And now I’m off.” But then she stilled uncertainly halfway through the doorway. “Sure you don’t have any questions?”
“Just one.”
“Which is?”
“When are we going to talk about us? Because that needs to happen—”
“Never?” she proposed.
At the same moment he said, “Soon.”
“Good day to you!”
“Soon,” she heard him reiterate in the split second before the door closed behind her.
• • •
When Eli arrived at Misty River’s sports complex that afternoon to coach Theo’s basketball team, he immediately discovered two things. One, the team was called the Sharpshooters. Two, they were not sharpshooters.
He stood on the indoor court they’d been assigned, guiding them through a warm-up before their game, torn between humor and pity. The boys were small and skinny, uncoordinated and tentative. Typically, on elementary school teams, at least one or two of the kids was an unusually good athlete and the good athletes carried the rest. But all the players on this team only seemed good at dressing themselves in their spotless bright red uniforms and remembering to bring water bottles.
The assistant coach, a preppy dad who’d introduced himself as Creighton, paced along the baseline while talking on his phone.
When the buzzer sounded to indicate that their warm-up had concluded, Eli called, “Huddle up.”
Creighton held up a finger, pointed to his phone, and turned his back in order to continue his conversation.
The boys obediently trotted to Eli. One of them tripped over his own feet and landed on all fours, but he quickly popped back up and continued forward. They circled around Eli, a group of unbelievably short kids.
“Who’s ready to play some basketball?” Eli asked.
“Me,” they all said sweetly.
None of them had the eye of the tiger. “Which five of you usually start a game?”
Eight of the ten kids raised their hands. Great. “Of those of you who have your hand raised, who plays guard?”
Three kept their hands in the air. “Okay. You and you will be our starting guards. You and you will play forward, and you will play center. Everybody clear on their roles?”
One kid made an “Mm-mm” sound. The starters nodded vaguely. The non-starters looked disappointed and resigned.
“Has Coach Theo taught you some plays?”
“We got three plays,” a dark-haired kid said. “Lion, cobra, and . . .” He screwed up his face.
“Shark,” another kid supplied. He jerked his bony hips from side to side and sang, “Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo.”
A few of the other kids joined in the singing and dancing and Eli had to work to recapture their attention. “Do you have hand signals for the plays?” Eli asked the guards.
“Yeah.”
“Whichever of you brings down the ball, make sure you signal the play to the rest of the team.” He continued to give instructions, but only one freckle-faced boy seemed to be paying close attention. A few were more interested in the light fixtures above. Some were studying the girls’ game that had just started on the next court over. One was fascinated with a loose thread on his waistband.
Eli extended his hand to the middle of the circle and the kids jostled forward to stack their hands on top of his. “Sharpshooters on three,” Eli said. “One, two . . .”
“Sharpshooters!”
Play began. It looked more like a frantic wrestling match than the sport of basketball. None of his players secured a rebound. The one kid who attempted a rebound whiffed the ball, which clunked off his forehead. He came out crying. Most of the time the guards forgot to signal the play and, when they did remember, none of their teammates was paying attention.
At halftime, Eli looked around for his assistant coach. Creighton again raised his finger and pointed at his phone. So Eli took it upon himself to give the boys an inspiring speech about basketball strategy. They listened with blank boredom. He finished with, “Let’s play hard, play clean, and give it our all.”
“Can I use the bathroom?” one of them asked.
“I think I broke my ankle,” another stated.
Creighton wandered over, clapped three times, and said, “Hustle out there, guys. Hustle!”
It was a massacre. So much so that a wave of relief washed through Eli when the final buzzer sounded.
“What’s the team’s win–loss record this season?” Eli asked Creighton, who was gathering the basketballs into a large bag.
“No wins. Just losses.”
Theo was having a terrible week. The least Eli could do for his friend was knock the substitute coaching role Theo had given him out of the park. Today he’d been, at best, a mediocre coach.
He could do better.
The boys’ parents brought their sons over one by one to tell him thank you. As he shook small hands, gave out fist bum
ps, and returned high fives, Eli made up his mind.
He was going to do whatever he could to ensure that the not-so-Sharpshooters brought home a win.
Chapter Three
Widely accepted truth: When your family members are going through a health crisis, it’s important to be as stoic and dependable as the Rock of Gibraltar.
This was an axiom Penelope wholeheartedly subscribed to. Yet when she entered Aubrey’s hospital room after work on Saturday, she burst into tears at the sight of Aubrey in her hospital bed.
“Pen,” Theo murmured kindly, standing to hug her. Gray circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine!” Penelope’s voice wobbled like a brand-new ice skater. Tears gushed over her lashes. “Just fine!” Also, potentially mentally unstable.
“Aww,” Aubrey said to Penelope. “C’mere.” In one arm, she cradled a sleeping Madeline. She extended her other arm to Penelope.
Penelope intertwined her fingers with Aubrey’s and squeezed. “How are you?”
“Better than I was yesterday.” Aubrey, a true Southern lady, did not resemble her ladylike self at present. She’d gathered her blond hair in a messy ponytail. Much of her usual color was missing from her oval face. With an IV and monitors attached to her, she seemed frail. Vulnerable. Her poor body had barely begun to recover from the C-section when she’d received this second enormous physical blow in the form of a blood clot.
Separating from Aubrey, Penelope made an urgent grab for the box of Kleenex near the sink, then blew her nose.
“You’re sleep-deprived, aren’t you?” Aubrey said. “I recognize the symptoms.”
“I’m fine! I did get some”—hardly any—“sleep last night.”
“Little-known fact about me,” Theo said. “I burst into tears myself the day after we brought Madeline home from the hospital.”
Aubrey smiled. “No, he didn’t.”
“I don’t seem to be able to make it stop.” Penelope gestured irritably with a fresh tissue. “I so wanted to be the Rock of Gibraltar!”
